


closer to the truth to say you can't get enough

by nemuimoi



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, Rimming, Sex Pollen, Status Effects, feelings pollen, not really sex pollen, what's the proper tag for fucking because you're too stupid to talk about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27255940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemuimoi/pseuds/nemuimoi
Summary: “Our ruler only wants you to accept happiness,” the shadow cries, cowering where it’s backed into a corner. “Accept what will make you happy. Let him show you!”Goro, who at this point is pretty sick of listening to the same bullshit spouted by every single creature inhabiting this place, thinks he already has a pretty good idea of what will make him happy—namely, shooting the fucking shadow full of holes. And that’s exactly what he does, watching with satisfaction as it disappears in a puff of smoke.Except this is not the usual puff of smoke—this one is more akin to an explosion, leaving behind a cloud of heavy dust, spreading through the corridor. Joker, who is standing closer to where the shadow was, starts coughing as he inhales it, and before long some of it reaches Goro as well, filling his lungs and leaving unpleasant stickiness at the back of his throat like pollen.A trip to the Metaverse that was only meant to be a remedy for Goro's boredom turns into something else entirely, and it's more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 23
Kudos: 255





	closer to the truth to say you can't get enough

**Author's Note:**

> i'm super unhappy with this but it's not gonna get any better so i give up. title from addicted to love by robert palmer but i was listening to the cover by florence and the machine when writing

Living in a made-up bullshit version of reality where everything is perfect, as Goro Akechi discovers, is insanely boring. Sure, the line at the convenience store near his apartment is never too long, the delivery guy never gets lost, making him wait for his food much longer than he wants to, and the restaurants never get his orders wrong—all of which were regular occurrences back in the actual reality. And sure, they all annoyed him greatly, but at least the small annoyances made the things that _did_ go his way stand out more, which in turn made his days distinguishable from one another. Here, in Maruki’s supposedly perfect reality, the cookie-cutter days filled with cookie-cutter polite people all blend into each other.

Now that Akira has managed to make his merry band of friends come to their senses, now that they know who is behind all this and what they have to do to stop him, there’s not even any research left for Goro to do. There’s only so many times he can go play billiards by himself, only so much reading he’s been meaning to catch up on, only so many Featherman reruns to watch before he starts feeling like he’s going to go crazy.

He doesn’t let himself think about Akira, doesn’t reach out to him—sure, if Akira invites him to Jazz Jin, he accepts, but it doesn’t happen that often. Akira, unlike him, has a whole circle of friends and acquaintances willing to spend time with him, and for all the talk about rivals and promises and fate, Goro never lets himself think that to Akira he is anything more than one of many.

Which is why, when Akira texts him one day with an unusual offer, it’s something of a surprise—but not an unwelcome one.

Akira Kurusu: hey wanna go to the palace with me today? everyone else is busy but we can do some exploring by ourselves i think

Akira Kurusu: we can make it a competition to see who can kill more shadows if you want

Going to Maruki’s palace with just the two of them is not the most rational thing to do—not an idea the likes of Niijima would approve of, that’s for sure. But that only makes Goro more tempted to accept the offer— _it’s going to be something only he can have, something Akira only wants to share with him_ , a part of him that he doesn’t let himself listen to whispers at the back of his mind. Goro knows that’s not true—Akira himself said that everyone else was busy, and Goro knows better than to think there’s anything other than stupid sentimentality driving Akira when he reaches out to Goro. Still, he _is_ insanely bored, and the idea of spending the day fighting shadows is much more appealing than the alternative, which is most likely staring at the wall alone in his apartment. He knows Akira’s just goading him by offering to make it a competition, but as obvious as it is—he hates to admit it’s working.

There’s no doubt in Goro’s mind that they’ll be fine—they could manage the enemies there without the rest of the Phantom Thieves just fine before, Akira is the most capable one of the bunch anyway, and Goro has years of experience with navigating the Metaverse alone. As long as they don’t venture too far into the unexplored parts of the palace, there’s no reason to worry. He texts Akira back to meet him at the entrance.

After all, Goro thinks, what’s the worst that could happen?

* * *

The worst that could happen, as it turns out, is a rather paltry-looking shadow skulking at the end of an otherwise empty corridor. It’s not the fight itself that’s the challenge—in fact, that part barely takes any time—it’s what comes after.

“Our ruler only wants you to accept happiness,” the shadow cries, cowering where it’s backed into a corner. “Accept what will make you happy. Let him show you!”

Goro, who at this point is pretty sick of listening to the same bullshit spouted by every single creature inhabiting this place, thinks he already has a pretty good idea of what will make him happy—namely, shooting the fucking shadow full of holes. And that’s exactly what he does, watching with satisfaction as it disappears in a puff of smoke.

Except this is not the usual puff of smoke—this one is more akin to an explosion, leaving behind a cloud of heavy dust, spreading through the corridor. Joker, who is standing closer to where the shadow was, starts coughing as he inhales it, and before long some of it reaches Goro as well, filling his lungs and leaving unpleasant stickiness at the back of his throat like pollen.

The dust settles, leaving Joker hunched over and struggling to catch his breath. Goro already feels like there’s a layer of wool wrapped around his brain, and he only inhaled some of—whatever the hell that thing was. He approaches Joker, who took the brunt of the explosion and must be in far worse shape.

Except when Joker looks up at him, it’s not the confident face of a fearless leader he sees—Joker’s expression is vulnerable, unsure, and he looks at Goro with a kind of longing Goro’s never seen on him. Goro thinks of all the status effects he can recognize, but this doesn’t look like any of them. If his own mind is foggy, then Joker is completely out of it.

“Akira, are you okay?” he asks, dropping the moniker, because despite the attire it’s clearly not Joker in front of him. “What the fuck did that thing—”

He doesn’t get to finish his question, because all of a sudden Akira moves, faster than he has any right to be, pushing at Goro until his back hits the wall. “Akechi,” Akira cries out, pulling at Goro’s helmet until it hits the ground with a metallic clang and discarding his own mask immediately after. Goro’s whole body tenses and he readies himself for an attack—but it never comes.

Instead, Akira presses his whole body against Goro, stunning him into silence. His face buries itself in the crook of Goro’s neck, his hands curl around him. “What the fuck,” Goro mutters, too astonished to manage anything more eloquent.

“Just let me hold you,” Akira says softly, voice filled with yearning, breath warm against Goro’s skin. “Let me have this.”

Goro’s initial panic subsides a bit—okay, so Akira seems to have lost his fucking mind, but Goro’s seen worse, and he didn’t get as far as he did by panicking. He lets Akira cling to him and tries to think of a way to fix this mess—surely, it’s some sort of effect the dust had on them, and that means it’s going to pass, sooner or later. His own mind feels increasingly more unfocused and he was far away from the shadow when it exploded, compared to Akira. Maybe they can just wait it out, he thinks—

And then Akira starts kissing his neck. Fuck. No waiting it out then—Goro has to find some sort of solution. Even if it’s getting even harder to focus now that Akira is mouthing at his throat, now that his hands have started wandering.

He sticks his hand into the pocket of Akira’s coat—it’s ridiculous how many things he can fit in there, really, it must be some Metaverse bullshit—trying to find something useful while Akira’s hands are doing a very good job being distracting, trailing down Goro’s chest.

He finally fishes out an Amrita Soda, because if this thing is some kind of a status effect, it might help. He takes the first sip, doesn’t feel any different—the feeling of wool wrapped around his brain like it’s trying to muffle any rational thoughts is still there, but Akira’s tongue is hot and wet against his neck and Goro thinks anything is worth a try.

“Drink this, you stupid asshole,” he mutters angrily, trying to press the bottle into Akira’s face, but Akira only shakes his head like a fucking child refusing to take his medicine, spilling the drink. “Holy shit—okay, Akira, here. Kiss me,” he demands against his better judgement before filling his own mouth with the soda and dropping the empty bottle on the ground.

This time, Akira complies immediately, pressing his lips against Goro’s. His mouth is soft and pliant, opening for Goro as he tries to push as much of the liquid as he can inside. Some of it spills and leaks down Goro’s chin, leaving it sticky, but he’s confident he got Akira to swallow at least a bit. Except it doesn’t do anything, of course it doesn’t, and now Goro is left with a bigger problem—Akira won’t stop kissing him, insistent and hungry. As much as Goro hates to admit it, it feels nice. Wet and sticky, but nice, and he hates it even more when he thinks about Akira kissing anyone else like this. If Akira happened to be here with any of the other Phantom Thieves, he’d be throwing himself at them instead—maybe not Morgana. God, Goro hopes not Morgana. The thought is sobering enough for him to try to push Akira away once more.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he snarls, more furious at the idea of Akira kissing one of his friends than he has any right to be. He doesn’t want this, but he realizes what he wants even less is anyone else seeing Akira like this.

“It’s you, you’re doing this to me” Akira murmurs like a prayer as if he can hear exactly what Goro’s thinking. He presses his lips into Goro’s jaw. “Only you.” His voice is very soft in Goro’s ear.

He thinks about fighting Akira. With Akira like this, for once it’s not just Goro’s stupid pride and stubbornness talking when he thinks he could overpower Akira, win against him. But Akira doesn’t want a fight—Akira is holding him, hands trailing along the curves of Goro’s spine, face tucked into the crook of Goro’s neck, like Goro is something to treasure, to be careful with, and not just someone to use, to kill or be killed by. Goro’s withstood many things—so many he’s lost count, always determined, always moving forward—but for the first time, he’s not sure if he can withstand this. “It’s always been you,” Akira mouths against his jaw, his cheek, his lips, infinitely gentle with him.

He tries not to let himself believe what Akira is saying—it’s just the stupid dust talking—but it’s getting harder and harder when Akira kisses him again, keeps kissing him like he means it, touching Goro everywhere he can reach. Akira licks into his mouth, takes, and takes, and _takes_ , until finally something in Goro snaps, the last remnants of his resolve dissolving under Akira’s warm hands—and he lets himself _give_. Kisses Akira back with everything he’s been repressing with meticulous attention and discipline for hours, days, weeks, months. All of him—his neediness, his hunger, his desire—overflows and spills, and Goro feels pathetic, feels scared, but feels free.

He clings to Akira, wraps his arms around him to pull him closer, realizes through the fog in his brain Akira is half hard—and it’s like some switch in him flips, filling his body with liquid heat, his mind with even more fog. What little space remains between them feels charged with electric static, and Goro palms at Akira’s cock to complete the circuit. Akira is hard against him, hard _for_ him, Akira—perfect, beautiful, untouchable Akira— _wants_ him, wants _him_. And Goro—Goro realizes he is going to give Akira exactly what he wants.

“Akira,” he whines, needy and breathless. “Akira, fuck me, please, don’t you—don’t you want to fuck me?” Through the haze in his head, the one miserable voice he’s gotten so good at ignoring wails loudly— _please say you want to fuck me, please say you want me, please want me_ —and Goro can’t make it shut up. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t even bother trying.

“You’re—“ Akira groans into Goro’s mouth, pulls away to look at Goro with pure adoration. “You’re amazing, Akechi.” When he manhandles Goro into turning around, pushes him against the wall, Goro goes willingly, letting Akira grind against him. “You have— _ah_ —the best ideas.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Goro sees Akira pull out his dagger and feels a new rush of arousal he’d rather not analyze too deeply pooling low in his abdomen—but Akira merely cuts open the fabric at Goro’s lower back before dropping the weapon to the floor and tearing the cloth the rest of the way with his hands.

“I have no fucking idea how your stupid outfit works,” he mumbles, and Goro doesn’t even have the time to feel offended, because then it’s just the smooth leather of Akira’s gloves against the bare skin of Goro’s ass, spreading him open. It’s enough to make his head spin—and that’s before Akira drops to his knees and presses his hot tongue against Goro’s exposed hole. It’s all too much, too fast, and Goro hears a scream before recognizing the voice as his own. The claws on his gloves make a nasty sound scraping against the wall as he struggles to stay upright, his knees nearly giving out. 

Akira pays it no mind, too focused on pressing wet kisses into the sensitive skin around Goro’s hole to pay attention to anything else. His fingers dig deeper into the soft flesh of Goro’s cheeks to pry them apart even further, and Goro barely has the time to think _this might leave bruises_ before Akira’s tongue starts pushing inside him. Goro tries to muffle the choked cry that spills out of his mouth with his arm, but it turns out Akira is paying at least some attention, after all, because the next thing Goro registers is the sharp sound of leather striking skin, followed by a burning sting on the side of his ass.

“Don’t cover your mouth,” Akira asks with an edge of desperation in his voice, rubbing the spot he just slapped until Goro obediently moves his hand, bracing it against the wall again. “I wanna hear you.” He gives Goro’s ass another slap, and this time Goro can’t hide the embarrassing whine it forces out of him.

“Good,” Akira nearly purrs, “so good for me,” and then returns to the task at hand—namely, breaching the tight ring of muscle of Goro’s asshole with his tongue. With nothing to muffle them, Goro’s gasps and cries echo against the surgically white walls of the empty corridor as Akira works him open.

Goro doesn’t know how much time passes before Akira takes his mouth off him—his mind still feels heavy, submerged in thick fog. Just when he thinks—fears—Akira might be done with him, he feels teeth sink into the fleshy part of his ass, not hard enough to break skin but definitely hard enough to bruise and punch another shout out of Goro’s chest. Akira is still holding his cheeks wide open, and Goro shudders violently when he blows cool air on the sensitive skin, wet with his spit. Fucking tease.

Akira’s hands finally leave Goro’s ass as he gets up from his knees, leaving Goro panting and achingly hard, wondering how long the effect of the weird dust they inhaled is going to last—and then he feels gloved fingers pushing into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and no, whatever the dust did is not subsiding anytime soon. His head is still spinning, and he moans around Akira’s fingers, sucking on them, letting himself imagine for just a second it’s Akira’s cock he’s sucking instead. He coats them in saliva, feeling some of it spill out of his mouth and trickle down his chin.

It seems to be exactly what Akira wanted, because he pulls his fingers out of Goro’s mouth and immediately pushes them into Goro’s ass instead, all three of them at once. Goro’s already loose from Akira’s tongue, but the fingers are much bigger, a tight fit when Akira unceremoniously thrusts them inside. He barely gives Goro time to adjust before he starts moving them, rough and sharp, the seams of his gloves dragging against Goro’s prostate, catching on his rim. Goro chokes on the pain-pleasure of it, balanced on the thin line between too much and not enough like on a tightrope, an edge of a knife. Akira scissors the fingers inside him a few times, working him open, and Goro can’t help but whine at the loss when they withdraw just as suddenly as they came, leaving him empty. Through the static in his head, Goro registers—just barely—the rustling of cloth as Akira fumbles with the buttons of his pants.

He briefly wonders if Akira’s going to take him dry, with only their mixed saliva acting as an inadequate replacement for lube. Before he can decide whether the idea is more terrifying or arousing—again, not something he wants to analyze too much—he feels the blunt tip of Akira’s cock pressing against his loose rim, slick with one of the many ointments Akira always carries around. A small, pathetic part of Goro’s brain wonders if the fact that Akira even bothered fishing one of them out of his pockets in his nearly delirious state means that he really _cares_ —and then he stops thinking anything at all, mind blank as Akira finally pushes into him in one smooth motion.

Akira drapes his entire body over Goro, one hand braced against the wall, caging him in, the other clutching Goro’s hips, holding them in place. Goro feels feverish all over, impossibly full where they’re connected. Akira groans behind him, forehead pressed into Goro’s shoulder as he adjusts to the tight, white-hot grip of Goro’s body clenched around his length. Finally, he starts moving, hips rolling in slow thrusts, each one making Goro’s breath hitch in his throat—and as they grow faster, so do Goro’s choked moans and cries as Akira’s cock drags against his prostate with every movement. It’s perfect, Akira’s _perfect,_ fitting into Goro like they were made for each other, like they could be something more than Goro’s ever let himself dream of in his most vulnerable moments. Akira’s hand, the one he’s leaning on, seeks out Goro’s palm on the cold wall, covers it with Akira’s own. Their fingers intertwine and Goro thinks this is what love must feel like to those lucky people who deserve it, people who are not him.

Akira’s thrusts get erratic, and Goro, nearly mindless in his pleasure, finally registers Akira’s voice—a steady crescendo of _Akechi, Akechi, Akechi_ —desperate and breathless against his ear. His own erection, untouched and still trapped under his clothes, is leaking a wet spot against his stomach. Akira reaches for it, pawing at it clumsily through the fabric, and it only takes seconds for Goro’s orgasm to wash over him like a wave, leaving him drenched and struggling to breathe, like a man drowning. Akira stills behind him, spilling inside Goro with a shout, and the hand pressed against his oversensitive cock moves to curl itself around his waist instead—in a way that the treacherous part of Goro’s brain, the one he usually manages to keep quiet, dares to call tender.

Like this, with Akira pressed so close to him, warm against his back and breathing hotly into his neck, Goro can almost let himself believe he is wanted, he is loved.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for the fog in Goro’s mind to clear after that—and judging by Akira’s inscrutable expression as he pointedly avoids eye contact with Goro, he’s back to normal as well. He’s tucked himself back into his pants a while ago, picked up his abandoned dagger, and is now pretending to wipe a nonexistent stain off the blade. As for Goro, the hole in his clothes has thankfully mended itself—one of the perks of being in the Metaverse, he supposes. At least he doesn’t have to walk around with his sore ass on display.

“I—“ Akira finally breaks the awkward silence, but now that Goro’s brain isn’t reduced to the needy, horny mush the dust turned it into, he has no intention of letting him finish.

“Whatever you’re going to say,” he interrupts, the tone of his voice carefully modulated into perfect neutrality—a skill acquired with years of practice, even if he can’t quite hide how hoarse he sounds. “Don’t. It was simply—a status effect of some sort, caused by the dust that shadow left behind. It couldn’t be helped.”

Akira looks up at him, an expression Goro can’t quite identify flickering across his face for just a split second before it reverts to its usual impassive state. Goro meets his gaze, stares back at him stubbornly, daring him to disagree. „Right,” Akira says finally, composed and collected like the perfect leader he is. “We were just—just helping each other out. As teammates.”

“Exactly,” Goro agrees, putting his helmet back on and watching Akira reaffix his own mask, slip back into the role of Joker. “Now let’s get out of here before we encounter any other surprises like that.”

He lets Joker lead the way to the nearest safe room just to hide his slight limp—if Joker saw, he’d no doubt offer to heal him with one of his Personas. Goro isn’t sure how to explain why he doesn’t want healing, why he _wants_ the limp and the marks and the dull ache inside him to stay—not even to himself.

* * *

Later that day, alone in his apartment, Goro strips down to take a shower, carefully folding his clothes more out of habit than necessity. He stands in front of a mirror, catalogues the marks left on him by Akira like case evidence—a matching set of bruises shaped like fingerprints on his ass, two red handprints, a set of teeth marks. Nothing that won’t fade within a few days.

He doesn’t let himself wish for anything more permanent than that.

* * *

The next morning, the screen of Goro’s phone lights up with a stream of notifications.

Akira Kurusu: you know, we never found out what that weird dust was

Akira Kurusu: we should go again today, alone

Akira Kurusu: to investigate some more, i mean. before we bring the others there

Akira Kurusu: you know. just to be safe

Goro has spent the better part of his life lying or being lied to. At this point, he thinks he has the right to consider himself an expert on both. This is probably one of the most pathetic, thinly veiled lies Goro’s ever been told—which is kind of an impressive accomplishment on Akira’s part. He stares at the bright screen for so long that when he closes his eyes, the words are still there, temporarily imprinted under his eyelids, and then sighs.

Goro Akechi: Of course.

Goro Akechi: Just to be safe.

**Author's Note:**

> like i said i hate this and i'm sorry it's inconsistent as hell. now might be a good time to mention english is not my native language, which is not really an excuse for my writing but it is, at least, some sort of explanation


End file.
